


will you tell the truth (so i don’t have to lie)

by goforth



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bets, F/M, Fluff, Jake and Amy Getting Their Shit Together, Where They're All Teachers, do i care? no!, has this been done before? probably!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24672952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goforth/pseuds/goforth
Summary: “I’m already regretting letting you talk me into this.”“Already regretting letting you talk me into this, title of your—”“Jake.”“—essay! It’s due on Monday, Jimmy, so you better start thinking of yours!”Or: the one where Jake and Amy are high school teachers and prove that, in any universe, they can make a stupid bet and fall in love in the process.
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Comments: 16
Kudos: 95





	will you tell the truth (so i don’t have to lie)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is by far the longest fic I've ever written. It's been six months in the making and I should note that I stopped watching after they got married, not that it really matters for the purposes of this AU fic.
> 
> All credit goes to Michael Schur, Dan Goor, NBC, and my undying love for Andy Samberg. Title comes from “Are You Bored Yet?” by Wallows featuring Clairo.
> 
> Unbeta’d, so please don’t judge me too hard. :)

It starts like this—

“If Jeremy Aarrons tries to make me do that stupid retrograde dance _one more time_ , I swear to God, I will kill him!”

Gina, who’s sitting in one of the ratty chairs in the teachers’ lounge they’re always asking Principal Holt to replace, barely looks up from her phone. “Renegade.”

“What?” Amy’s voice is exasperated and slightly breathy as she walks towards the outdated coffee pot that sits in the corner of the lounge. She’s already regretting having skipped her usual Starbucks run before school.

“Renegade, not _retrograde_. C’mon, Amy, it’s like you’re single-handedly trying to prove that everyone who says teachers are dinosaurs that just live in their classrooms is right.” Gina’s eyes still haven’t left her phone, hands lazily swiping left, right, and forward, as one does when trying to beat level 200 of Kwazy Cupcakes.

Amy’s only response is an eye roll. The coffee in her cup is warm and stale, like it’s been sitting in the pot since homeroom, but she doesn’t care. A long weekend is right around the corner and her normally distracted students are entering a hyper-mode of short-attention spans. She couldn’t even get through her lesson plan about the similarities between _Brave New World_ and _1984_ , and what today’s society can learn from them! The day before Labor Day Weekend is always so brutal.

“You’re not even a _teacher_ , Gina, why are you always in here? Didn’t Principal Holt ask you to start organizing the senior job fair?”

“Already done.” Her eyes finally look up at Amy as she lifts her legs up on top of the table in front of her. Amy scowls at the uncleanliness of it all. “I already confirmed that Floorgasm had their calendars cleared and that was the only thing I needed to book. But thanks for being concerned, Driving Miss Amy.”

A headache. That’s what Amy’s feeling—a disastrously large headache blooming at her temples. “I don’t think _Floorgasm_ is an appropriate performance for a school-related function, Gina.”

Gina’s already straightening her posture—a sure sign that Amy is about to get _schooled_ , pun absolutely intended—when the door bursts open with a loud flourish and Amy is saved.

“What are you guys chatting about? Doesn’t matter, stop talking right now and listen to me!”

It’s no different than any other Jake Peralta entrance and Amy rolls her eyes again, right on cue. Charles Boyle, his partner-and-puppy-dog-in-crime, follows behind him, facing scrunching up in a faux-badass expression, as though he can’t _wait_ until everyone hears what Jake has to say. Amy can already tell it’s going to be ridiculous and annoying and not worth her time. She crosses her arms over her perfectly ironed button-up and raises an eyebrow, waiting. It’s a silent challenge.

“Gina, nice to see you, hope you’ve gotten past level two hundred finally. Scully, Hitchcock, whatever you’re eating, it looks disgusting. Santiago, you have _got_ to stop doing your makeup in the second-floor girl’s bathroom, the lighting isn’t doing any favors.”

“What do you want, Peralta?”

Jake grins in only a way that successfully burning Amy can bring and clasps his hands together. He’s in the middle of the lounge now, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. It’s a sad group, to be honest: Gina, the unmotivated Admissions Administrator, Amy, the uptight Literature ( _and_ AP Literature, thank you very much) teacher, Hitchcock and Sully, the under-qualified and fairly useless Gym teachers, and Charles, the over-enthused Foods and Home Ec teacher. Of course, that’s when Rosa, the no-nonsense Shop teacher walks in, and Jake figures it’s finally time to make his announcement.

“Well, fellow defenders of the modern high school education, I am happy—nay, _thrilled_ to announce that this year’s Homecoming theme is…” He pauses, his face lit with excited anticipation, and looks to Charles. An elbow nudges the mustard yellow shirt gently. “Charles, a drumroll, please.”

“Oh, right, of course! Hope you’re all ready to be banged!” The chorus of disgusted groans seems to offend him because he sighs in exasperation just before patting his thighs in a rhythmic-esque fashion. “By my awesome _drums_ , people! Gosh, get your minds out of the gutter.”

Jake, in his usual way, seems largely unbothered by the interruption. “Super gross, but moving on!” His arms raise above his head as he surveys the room, egged on by Charles’ dramatic drumming. “This year’s Homecoming theme will be… _eighties coming of age movies_!”

“You can’t be serious, dude. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” It’s the first words Rosa’s said since walking in and it’s only fitting that she uses them to shoot down the idea. Jake does his best _can you even believe that she just said that_ expression, but it falls short.

Amy nods along beside her, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. “Who even said you got to choose the theme? Isn’t that the student body’s job?”

“Don’t you worry, Santiago, they were totally on board! I guess the brightest minds of our future look up to me and seek out my advice for everything.”

“Really?” Gina’s face is skeptical at best as Jake clenches his teeth and smiles just a little too wide. The smile lasts five whole seconds before faltering.

“... No, I told Chris Lyons that Alice Mantell’s favorite movie is Pretty in Pink and that she would _definitely_ go with him if that was the theme. Now I’ve just got to convince the head cheerleader to go out with the nerdy class president and also make her think that _Pretty in Pink_ is her favorite movie, no big deal, totally easy, this is gonna be great!”

The group is still looking unconvinced, so Charles, the ever-loyal best friend that he is, jumps in. “Come on, guys, it’s a great theme! I mean, who doesn’t love the eighties? The Boyle clan were just beginning to ferment their yeast for their world-famous sourdough bread, and Grandfather was plotting a chart of all the women’s menstrual cycles for ovulation that we _still_ use tod—”

“Charles, buddy, you’re starting to make this worse—”

“Sorry Jakey.”

“‘s alright. _Anyways_ , it’s going to rule and you’re all welcome. Now all you guys have to do is sign up as chaperones and it’ll be totally tubular, man!”

Amy perks up again at that, hands now angrily cupping her _English Teachers Get Lit_ mug that she definitely didn’t buy for herself. “Wait, you forced this stupid theme on everyone and you’re not even going to be chaperoning?”

“Amy, c’mon,” he says with an over-exaggerated laugh, as if it’s the stupidest question he’s ever been asked. “I don’t _do_ high school dances anymore. All those hormones running around? I’m too cool for that. Besides, as Abraham Lincoln’s most liked and respected teacher—”

“Nobody thinks that,” pipes Rosa, expression painted as impossibly bored.

“—I would just cramp everyone’s style if I went. I mean, they’d all be trying to get me to dance with them and join in on the drama and impress me and shit, and that just wouldn’t be fair for anyone!” Jake’s hands are now on his hips and Charles mirrors his stance behind him, as though standing will somehow prove his point. It doesn’t.

“Well that’s not fair.” Amy looks indignant, chin tilted up and eyes stern. She’s in Teacher Mode, unphased by the fact that, in this scenario, Peralta is the child. If the shoe fits and all that. “If you’re not signing up then I won’t be either.”

This statement, as expected, backfires. A wide, sly smirk crosses Jake’s face, and Amy knows she’s made a mistake. “ _Aw_ , Santiago, it’s so cute how in love with me you are. I’m sure you can handle one evening without getting to look at my insanely handsome face.”

“That’s not what I meant, Peralta!” Can everyone see the flush that’s threatening to crawl up her cheeks? She hopes not. “Nobody likes chaperoning dances and if you think you’re too good to do it, then I reserve the right to skip it too.”

Gina’s looking down at her phone again, hands resuming their movement. “Bad news, my little ducklings. Holt told me he’s asking at least seven teachers to sign up, and the entire Math department is out that weekend for a derivatives retreat. More like a deriva- _lame_ retreat, am I right? Amy, I’m surprised you’re not going.”

“Ha-ha,” comes her punctuated reply. (She had tried to get an invite, because, _hello, that sounds awesome_ , but was promptly shut down in the name of “department exclusive bonding.” Whatever.)

“Anyway, that leaves twenty-five teachers left, and if you take away the oldies and the losers with family and Scully and Hitchcock—”

“What about us?” Comes Scully’s muffled voice, blocked partially by the massive piece of lasagna he’d just eaten, and partially by his general inability to speak clearly. 

“—That basically adds up to either Jake or Amy having to chaperone. Have fun deciding, losers! If you want some advice, when Rihanna was trying to decide if she should release her highly-anticipated ninth album or launch her own lingerie line, I told her: ‘Rhi-Rhi, _girl_ , just close your eyes and picture what is going to make bitches everywhere happiest.’ Fenty was announced the next week, and Gina Linetti saved the future of pop music as we know it.”

It’s Charles who decides to take the bait. It’s partly due to his general ignorance but mostly due to his innate desire to please everybody. “But I thought you just said she didn’t release the album.”

“Didn’t she?” Gina laughs and shakes her head, presumably in mock-sympathy. “Oh, Boyle, stop living in the past and come join the year 2022 like the rest of us.”

The silence that follows is charged with disbelief and a general loss for words. It’s only when everyone feels that the moment has acceptably passed that Amy and Jake kick back in, one after another, white-hot with excuses and insults.

“C’mon Amy, you can’t put off reading your _How To Finally Please a Man_ manual for one night?”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Mr. Fifty Bad Dates! You don’t need to drink orange soda and watch _Die Hard_ for the thirtieth time, you can afford to give your body a break.”

“My body is totally healthy, I’ll have you know! I haven’t been to a doctor in _years_!”

“Oh, please, you wouldn’t know healthy if it hit you in the di—”

It’s by the fourth pathetic insult that Rosa decides she can’t take it anymore. “Oh my god, if you two don’t _shut up_ I will remove all of your eyeballs and make you force-feed them to each other.”

“I think it’s sweet,” chimes in Charles, arms crossed and torso leaning casually against the counter as he watches the scene unfold before him. “Jake and Amy, flinging empty insults like they’re not _obviously_ in love with each other.”

This enlists a series of barking laughs (Rosa), enlightened _“Ohhhhs”_ (Gina and Hitchcock), and an over-exaggerated _“Ew!”_ and _“Gross, Bolye!”_ (Jake and Amy). It stops the bickering for a moment, but once the dust settles, the dilemma still stands.

“Alright, it appears that there is only one way we, as professional working adults, can solve this.” Jake pauses for an obviously dramatic effect, surveying the group with wide eyes and fingers tapping together vis-a-vis a Bond villain. “An old-fashioned bet.”

Everyone’s expecting her to laugh in disgust, but Amy only takes a step closer to Jake with pointed eyes. “I’m listening.”

(If there’s a twinkle of glee in Jake’s eyes, mixed with a twinge of uncensored affection, it’s no one’s business but his own.)

“Alright, well, we all know that Bill Boom—terrible name, by the way, that kid is _definitely_ on the shortlist for Most Bullied—never enters or leaves school without his Texas Instruments TI-84 Plus CE EZ-Spot Graphing Calculator. Whoever has it at the end of the day by next Friday doesn’t have to chaperone the dance.”

“Stealing from a _teenager?_ ” Amy leans back slightly and is only mildly disappointed that her arms are already crossed. It’s less dramatic now. “That’s a new low, Mr. Peralta, even for you.”

He only smirks. “So you’re saying you can’t do it, is that what I’m hearing?”

“I will crush you like I crushed those NYSTP scores last term, Peralta.” She takes a step forward, hand extended in a challenge. “You’re on!”

Their hands lock in an animated handshake, eyes locked in determination. Up, down, up, down, until the speculators realize this moment is more about Jake and Amy’s unwillingness to be the first to back down than a verbal agreement of a bet. Everyone goes back to their regularly scheduled programming, relishing the last twenty minutes before the end of lunch bell rings. Left once again to their own devices, Hitchcock and Scully enter a heated argument over who gets the last slice of lasagna—ignoring the fact that it’s, by all accounts and normal standards of the word, a perfectly large enough piece to split—causing it to drop on the floor, the two men clambering off their chairs to save it ( _“Five-second rule, Scully!” “I know the rules, Hitchcock! Save the damn pasta!”_ ). Some of the splashback hits Gina’s Jordans, prompting her to scream loudly, which causes Boyle to drop his coffee on his pants, which causes Rosa to bark loudly with laughter. In the middle of it all is Jake and Amy, still intensely locked, unaware of all the commotion.

This is when Assistant Principal Jeffords walks in, surveys the scene, and sighs defeatedly.

.

.

.

—Or, actually, it starts like this:

Jake Peralta begins teaching at Abraham Lincoln High School the summer he turns twenty-eight. 

After a few years of gruesome substituting, a position for Government and Law (US) opens up. It’s not an exact match for his criminology and (and later, in his junior year of college, when he realizes that loving _Die Hard_ and actually wanting to become a cop are not the same thing) education double degree, but it’s a stable job and therefore what he needs. He’d toyed with the idea of doing something other than teaching for a while, but in the end, he decides that he actually _likes_ it. Connecting with kids is easy for him because he’s never grown up, not really, and anyway, it makes his mom happy to be able to tell her wine friends that her son is “helping change lives.”

He’s liked as a teacher too, is the thing. By the kids. And most of the teachers, he likes to think. Sure, everyone brushes their noses up at his “new-age” style of teaching (read: interactive lessons where the students watch an episode of _Law and Order_ and then act it out, only changing what they think works better) but in the end, he’s respected. His scores are solid, his students always quiet down when he asks them to, and they talk to him. About things outside of the classroom.

What more could he ask for?

Amy Santiago bursts in a year later, fresh off an art history degree and armed with an understanding that English positions are more abundant and, anyway, if she’s going to make principal in ten years, it’s (statistically) the easiest track. 

Authority runs through her blood, gets holed up in her veins, filling her with the constant desire to do better and be better. She’s always wanted to teach, actually _believes_ that she can change the lives of these kids, and wants to be in charge of them one day. Becoming principal of a New York City high school by thirty-seven is ambitious, sure, but Amy wants to do it. She _knows_ she can do it.

Of course, it takes her the better half of two years to be taken seriously. Or, maybe less seriously. Because while thirty-paged lesson plans and color-coded supplies and inspirational posters might have seemed like a good way to tackle teaching at first, the nickname _Hardass Santiago_ and more than four kids a year trying to switch out of her class feels a lot like failing. So she eases up on the workload and tries to sprinkle a bit of fun into her lessons (read: Movie Fridays once a month that relate to books they’re reading, because she’s not _crazy_ ). She forces herself to care less about perfect grammar and syntax and more about connecting with her students. And it must work, at least a little bit, because fewer and fewer students drop out of her class each semester.

Jake and Amy meet the very first day Amy begins teaching. She’s stumbling through the halls at an _ungodly_ hour in the morning (whoever decided that learning should start at seven-thirty in the morning is officially on her shit list), hands struggling to carry her posters and reusable bags and binders. Visions of everything crashing down and spilling across the tiled floor are already filling her head when she feels someone pull a binder from the crook of her elbow.

“Here, let me help you with that. Wow, that’s a lot of stuff. You just come from a Staples convention or something?”

The first thing Amy notices is that he’s young. Not young enough to be a student, but not quite old enough to be a teacher. And okay, she’s one to talk, but something about his unkempt hair and blue hoodie just doesn’t scream _authority!_ to her. She wonders if he’s a gym teacher. Or a substitute. Or the older sibling of a student. “Thanks. And no, this is just stuff for my classroom. Probably should have done two trips, but I really wanted to get everything set up before my first homeroom.”

They don’t discuss him following her to her new classroom; it just happens. Amy’s secretly grateful. Independence may be her middle name, but _occasionally_ she overestimates how much she can handle. He ends up taking a few more items from her and keeps in line with her fast steps, heels echoing against the lockers and high ceiling. From the corner of her eye she watches him smile. (It’s a nice smile.) “Oh, a rookie! That’s exciting. Whatcha teaching?”

“English. Literature, more specifically.” She’s only half-paying attention to the conversation as they reach her classroom and she focuses on digging through her purse for her newly-instated key. It takes her a moment, even without the presence of the extra materials, and she ends up missing one of his questions. There’s a good chance he’s thinking she’s being rude, but Amy can’t be bothered right now with engaging in conversation.

“Alright, well. _Super_ nice to meet you, Lit.” The words are laced with sarcasm and it rubs her the wrong way, so she keeps her name to herself and doesn’t correct him. “Good luck.”

He’s already walking out the door, this probable gym teacher, but Amy calls after him anyway. “Thanks, but I won’t need it!” And then she huffs into the empty space around her, silently hating him for ruining the start of her very first day.

Two days later she learns that his name is Jake and that he teaches Law, and that apparently the students all really like him. It doesn’t matter, though, because life is all about Good First Impressions, and Jake the Law Teacher has made an intrinsically bad one.

.

.

.

It kind of becomes a _thing_ after that first interaction. A rivalry. They try to keep it professional when they’re passing each other in the hallways and their students are mingling about them. Principal Holt likes to keep a tightly run ship and they both respect their boss, after all. It doesn’t always work, though, because they’re Mr. Peralta and Ms. Santiago, and the students like gossiping about who had the best burn that week. (It’s usually Jake, but when Amy wins, it’s because it’s a really good one.) And if there are occasional whispers about _love-hate_ and about how they just _need to make out and get over it already_ that fill the classrooms, well, they just pretend not to hear it. Because, hello, gross.

.

.

.

Bill Boom sits in the front row of Amy’s third period AP Literature class. It’s a peer-review day, where they pour over each other’s _The Great Gatsby_ symbolism essays, which means that Amy gets to sit and grade tests at the front of the room. It’s the perfect setup to steal a calculator. 

Of course, stealing, much less from one of her unwitting students, isn’t something Amy grapples with easily. So her first tactic is to _borrow_ it, which is a perfectly acceptable notion for a teacher who is grading tests. And then, when Bill asks for it back, she’ll pretend she lost it, only to magically find it after the dance. It’s a well thought out, actionable plan, and he gets it back in the end. It’s a no-brainer win-win.

She waits until her students start filing in to set her plan into motion.

Her voice is the picture of innocence (with that ever-present trace of authority) when she calls him over. “Oh, Bill, can you come to my desk for a moment, please?”

There’s a moment of hesitancy in his features—it's never a good sign to be called upfront to see a teacher—but he makes his way over nonetheless, backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s not a bad looking kid, just a bit of teenage acne and greasy hair, but he’s _nerdy_ , so he’s naturally set up for disaster. (Amy knows what that’s like.) His voice twitches with puberty as he cautiously approaches her desk. “Yes, Ms. Santiago? Is this about my essay, because I know it’s not due until next week, but I only wanted feedback on the research—”

“It’s not about the essay, Bill. I’m giving you my notes at the end of class, but your research is so far very good.” It’s not a lie. And if it butters him up a little bit, well, then that’s just an added bonus.

Bill visibly sags with relief. “Oh, good. Then, uh, what did you need to talk to me about?”

She takes an invisible deep breath before motioning down to the stack of papers on her desk. “Well, you see, Bill, I’m going to be doing some grading this period while you guys go over your essays. And I need to get these midterm grades in before Homecoming, but I forgot my calculator at home this morning.” The calculator that’s tucked neatly at the bottom of her bag burns a hole in it. “I know you always bring one to class, so I was wondering if I could borrow it? Since you won’t be needing it this period?”

He looks skeptical for half a second (and really, Amy can’t blame him, not when she had such a hard time allowing her own classmates to borrow pencils or highlighters), but he nods in understanding. She’s trying not to look too triumphant as he pulls the graphing calculator out of his bag and hands it to her.

_Suck on that, Peralta._

“Great, Bill, you’re a lifesaver! Now get over there and talk about the color green!” Her grin is a little too wide, her eyes just a little shiny, so she leans back in her seat and nods once. He’s looking a little confused, and a little horrified, but he heads back towards his desk. Victory courses through Amy’s veins and she has to remind herself to calm down. But she can’t help it; the thought of Peralta’s face when he sees the calculator in her hands, his smug, adorable face falling with the realization that he lost, is too enticing not to celebrate.

And then class ends, and Bill timidly approaches her desk, asking for his calculator, and Amy fumbles.

It starts out pretty well, as she feigns frantically searching the papers laid out across her desk. She even opens a drawer or two, because Amy is a great actress, thank you very much. “Oh, right! Gosh, Bill, I’m so sorry, it was here a second ago!”

“Oh, uh,” he starts, looking more distraught than Amy had been expecting, and his calculator brushes against her lap accusingly, “that’s okay. Just let me know when you find it, I guess.”

_Shit._ Maybe she shouldn’t relate to his borderline unhealthy obsession with a calculator, but she totally does, and seeing him dejectedly walk away tugs at her heartstrings. So she sighs and stands up from her desk, Texas Instruments TI-84 Plus CE EZ-Spot in hand, a wide smile that she hopes looks disbelieving across her face. “Wait, Bill! I found it!”

Time for Plan B.

.

.

.

She finds Jake in the hallway post-Operation Steal Calculator failure and pre-lunch. He’s standing in front of his classroom, high-fiving random students who cross his path. There’s a fake smile plastered on her face as she slides next to him, because they’re _professionals_ , but her teeth are gritted as she hisses at him.

“I’m already regretting letting you talk me into this.”

“Already regretting letting you talk me into this, title of your—”

_“Jake.”_

“—essay! It’s due on Monday, Jimmy, so you better start thinking of yours!”

.

.

.

Jake’s first attempt also fails. Pretty spectacularly, in fact.

It’s pure dumb luck that it’s a _Law and Order_ day for Bill’s class, but Jake pretends like it’s part of his master plan. Of course, he can’t claim that he planned on Bill falling asleep during the episode (because A student Bill Boom _never_ falls asleep during class), but he could kiss the universe for handing him the calculator on a silver platter.

Jake’s never been the type of teacher to hover; never been one to walk around the classroom during tests or lectures. He tends to go for the theatrical presentation at the front of the class, simply because he enjoys the dramatics of it all, enjoys having all eyes on him. This particular class, though, he makes his ways through the rows of desks, pretending as though it’s a totally normal thing for him to do. None of his students are really paying attention to the television in front of them anyway, so it’s easy to linger next to Bill’s desk.

He can see the calculator right there, in the unzipped front pocket of Bill’s backpack, and he has to stop himself from fist-pumping into the air. He cannot _wait_ to see the expression on Amy’s face when he presents it to her, her mouth quirked in an adorable frown. Should he get the marching band to play _We Are The Champions_ while he rubs it in her face, preferably on the auditorium stage? No, that’s too much. Unless…

Shaking his head in an effort to make himself focus, he double-checks that no one is watching before he bends down to quietly retrieve the calculator from its confines. He’s trying his best to be sneaky, he _really_ is, but his hand starts cramping up out of nowhere, and God, he really needs to stop playing video games for twelve hours straight with Craig on the weekends and…

And Bill wakes up, probably due to the feeling of Jake pummeling into his side from the pain and a general loss of balance.

“Mr. Peralta?”

_Shit._

Thinking on his feet has never been his strong suit, which is why Jake reaches out to swat Bill’s sweater a little harder than he needs to, screaming, “Bug! I mean, uh, there was a bee! On your shirt! But don’t worry, I got it. All good. No need for the EpiPen here, Nurse Genevive, am I right? I mean, if you’re allergic to bees. I don’t actually know if you are. But no need to worry either way!”

Bill is looking equal parts frightened and disbelieving, especially when Jake just thrusts out his empty hand, not a dead bug body in sight. “Uh… Thanks. I guess.”

Jake nods once, twice, three times, hands now on his hips. No one can tell how rapidly he’s blinking, right? “You’re welcome, my man! Back to Sam Waters kicking ass everybody!” And then he scurries up to his desk, silently mouthing curses as he does.

So, yeah. Time for Plan B.

.

.

.

Okay, so. Deception didn’t work. It doesn’t matter: Amy can bounce back, Amy can win this bet, Amy _needs_ to win this bet. If only to see the smug look on Peralta’s face fall when she dangles the calculator in his face and demands to watch as he tells Holt he’ll be chaperoning the dance. It’s this image, the one of Jake and Amy in the principal’s office, him looking sheepish, that launches her into Plan B.

It’s common knowledge that Principal Holt likes to be the last one to leave the building most days. After the Great After School Food Fight of 2017 that absolutely _no one_ is allowed to talk about, he likes to make sure nothing of the shenanigan or tomfoolery persuasion occurs when he isn’t around. And because Amy likes to keep her principal’s schedule in her back pocket, in case of emergencies, she waits until the final bus bell rings to knock on his door.

“Come in, Ms. Santiago.”

There’s always this kind of _rush_ Amy gets when she walks into Holt’s office. Maybe it’s the feeling of belonging or the aura of authority that she craves so much. Maybe it’s the adrenaline that comes along with talking to her mentor. Whatever it is, it fuels her, the excitement barely leaving room for any guilty feelings of pulling the principal into her childish rivalry.

“Good afternoon, Raymond. Holt. Principal!” Her eyes are wide with embarrassment, but he simply gestures to the chair that sits across from his desk, his expression neutral.

“What can I do for you?”

Grateful for the distraction, Amy slides into the wooden chair and cups her hands in front of her. The prepared words she’d written down are racing through her head, moving almost as fast as her pulse. _You can do this, Santiago. It’s barely even a lie_. “Well, sir, I wanted to bring something to your attention that you might not have been aware of.”

“Oh?” Holt’s expression changes from neutral to vaguely intrigued, hands reaching to remove his glasses from his face and dangle them in the air. Amy takes this as his version of encouragement and presses on.

“Now, I know I’m only an English teacher—”

“English teachers are just as important to the enrichment of young adults’ minds as any other subject, Ms. Santiago.”

Amy allows herself to bask in the glow of the compliment for a quick moment before continuing, “Thank you, sir. I just meant that I’m not a math teacher, so I may not have the authority on this matter.” She takes a deep breath and pulls her best Serious Face. “But I believe some of the students are abusing their graphing calculator privileges.”

It’s barely noticeable, but one of his eyebrows raise. Score. “And what lead you to this conclusion, Ms. Santiago?”

“I caught a student typing _eight zero zero eight one five_ and passing it to a classmate, sir.”

Holt furrows his eyebrows. “I’m not familiar with that sequence. Is that… Code for something?”

“It’s, uh,” Amy pauses then, too embarrassed to say _boobies_ to her boss. Eyes slightly widened, she pulls her own calculator out of her bag and punches the string of numbers into it. Then she wordlessly slides it across the desk towards Holt, ensuring the small screen stays upside down.

He takes it from her as he slides his glasses back on, and Amy holds her breath. “Oh. _Oh._ ”

“Yeah.” Is she blushing? Amy certainly feels like she’s blushing. But she manages to keep her expression calm and collected, as though she’s merely stating facts. (And it’s not like it’s a lie, either. Kevin Vasquez actually _did_ type various obscenities into his graphing calculator and pass it over to Finn Park. Not in her class, of course, but still. The point stands that Amy Santiago is not a liar.)

Holt is still looking mildly bewildered across from her. “And students do this often? Type out various sexually implied body parts onto their calculators like they’re communicating to each other during a peep show?” His words are punctuated with his understated sort of anger and Amy tells herself not to feel bad. All’s fair in love and bets.

No, wait, scratch that. All’s fair in bets and _war_.

__

__

“I wish it wasn’t so, sir,” she answers with an exaggerated sort of sigh. “But they’re finding new ways to disrespect the rules of Abraham Lincoln. And I just wanted to bring this to your attention.”

“Well, you were right to!” Now he’s actually _angry_. It makes Amy swallow thickly and sink into her seat. “That’s it. I’m writing up an announcement for tomorrow that instructs all calculators to be given to teachers at the beginning of class unless it’s pertinent to an assignment.” He’s already scribbling into his notepad, the calculator resting on the desk between them.

She takes the moment to fist-pump while he isn’t looking. Take _that_ , Peralta! That’ll teach you to mess with Santiago!

And then: “Or, maybe, we should ban them all together! I’m sure we can find room in the budget to provide the math department with their own calculators for the students to use, so we can eliminate the need for student-owned ones altogether.”

_Shit._

“Oh, sir, I don’t know that that’s necessary—”

Holt pokes his head up at that and raises a hand in her direction, effectively silencing her. “Here’s a lesson on being an effective principal, Ms. Santiago.” Amy just stares at him, mouth snapped shut and skin tingling at the prospect of a mentor-mentee moment. “Leading a school is about identifying problems and finding the longest-lasting solution. You need to nip them in the bud right away, or else the administration or students won’t take you seriously.”

Once the thrill that comes with _Principal Holt giving her advice_ passes, Amy inexplicably thinks of Bill. Of his attachment to his calculator. Of the way he carries it to every class with pride, as though he’ll need to whip it out in the middle of AP Literature or Government and US Law and solve an equation for someone. The thought makes her heart twist and her stomach drop, along with the weight of the lie that’s _working_. She squeezes her eyes shut and starts talking before the competitive side of her brain gets to talk her out of it.

“Actually, Principal Holt, you know what? Silly me, I forgot that I actually asked them to do that!”

Holt looks skeptical, like he doesn’t actually believe her, and Amy starts to sweat. “You asked them to type obscenities using their mathematical instruments?”

“Uh huh!” Amy’s head is nodding furiously as she starts to stand up out of her chair, hand reaching for her device. “It was a lesson on… On the power of the medium! And how to think outside the box! And how words have meaning no matter what they’re written on!” God, what is she even _saying_? “It’s just that Wednesday brain messing with my brain, you know how it goes! Hump day!” Her voice deepens on the last sentence, and for some unknown reason she bends her wrists and pumps her arms up past her shoulders, body already halfway towards the door.

“Hump… Day?” Both of his eyebrows are raised this time as he stares at her incredulously, as though she might be on drugs. Amy really hopes her boss doesn’t think she’s on drugs.

“Anyway, please don’t make that announcement, everything’s fine, see you at tomorrow’s staff meeting!” And then she’s running out the door, face in a permanent wince as she prays to Whoever’s Up There that Holt just forgets the entire interaction. It isn’t even until she locks herself in her empty classroom that she realizes Operation Steal Calculator has failed. Again.

Fucking Bill goddamn Boom.

.

.

.

Jake’s next plan is a little… Well, _drastic_.

In his defense, though, Charles has been begging him to help for _days_ , insisting that he’s a great wing woman. And though Jake fully resents the implication of that title, especially when it comes to besting Amy, he figures that he could probably use some help.

“Just tell me what you need, Jakey,” Charles implores as they sit in Jake’s beat-up car and less-than-ideal parking spot. It takes a full fifteen minutes of Charles screeching with appreciation and assuring Jake that he would not let him down for them to focus, but they’re finally ready to plan.

“So, here’s the deal.” Jake’s mumbling between bites of cheese puff that may or may not be from an impulsive gas station purchase two months ago. Whatever, he’s an adult, so back off. “We need a distraction big enough to give me the opportunity to steal the calculator, but not so big that Bill gets suspicious.”

Charles, on the other hand, is munching on a stick of artisan veal jerky. He offers a bite to Jake, who crinkles his face and sticks out his tongue in lieu of saying _no fucking way_. “Got it. You already tried _Law and Order_ day?”

“Trust me, this kid is too smart for _Law and Order_ day. We have to think bigger.” He doesn’t mention the hand-cramping thing because it’s too embarrassing to admit, even to Charles.

“Oh! What if I use a cake recipe for my next Foods class and Bill _accidentally_ bakes his calculator into it? I’d totally let you sneak his cake out of class!”

Jake, to his credit, keeps his bewilderment to a minimum. “I don’t think electronics work after you bake them, buddy. But you’re on the right track!”

“Dammit!” Charles looks genuinely upset the suggestion didn’t work, and Jake’s heart pangs for his idiotic best friend. “Okay, well what if Scully incorporates calculators into volleyball somehow? And you can sneak in to show off how incredible your legs look in shorts and grab Bill’s?”

“My legs _do_ look pretty banging in gym shorts,” Jake agrees as he chews thoughtfully. “But there’s a chance it could break, which I don’t think Amy would count.”

It’s then that Charles looks at Jake in a searching sort of way, like he’s a detective trying to figure out a perp, and it makes his skin crawl. Jake isn’t sure what he’s about to say, but he’s pretty sure he won’t like it. “Why don’t you just _tell_ Amy that you like her and want to have her babies, Jake?”

“That I _what_?” Jake’s sputtering and possibly choking on dry cheese puff crumbs. He coughs a few times, with the assistance of Charles’ hand patting his back aggressively, before scoffing. “I don’t _like_ Amy, Charles! She’s dorky and weird and I — that’s just ridiculous, it’s only a stupid bet! Because I want her to be miserable at the dance. Because I like seeing her _miserable_.”

“Me doth thinks he protests too much!” That's when Jake shoots him a look that could kill, silently insisting that he just drops it, and Charles relents. “All right, all right. It’s too bad there aren’t any scheduled fire drills this week that you can use. I mean, you could _start_ a fire, but that would be rid—”

“Charles, you’re a _genius_!”

And so that’s how Jake ends up constantly (and subtly) checking his phone the next day in class, waiting for the signal. His students are taking a test, which he feels a little bad about, but he’s already planning on giving them all As when it’s over.

His phone buzzes against his thigh with a notification and Jake scans the room before checking it.

**Charles Boyle (Foods)** : I still don’t feel good about this, Jakey. What if Principal Holt finds out?

He tries to quickly type _he wont just do it_ in response, but he’s got one eye on his students and it accidentally comes out as _he winf just di ut_. His phone buzzes again less than a second later.

**Charles Boyle (Foods)** : What? Are you having a stroke? That’s it, I’m pulling the plug on this plan and coming to check on you.

Jake responds out loud before he can remember that they’re trying to be stealthy here. “What? No!” Some students shoot their head to look at him and he finds a way to smile dismissively. “Just reading over an essay, nothing to see here! Back to your tests. And, uh, no cheating. I’m watching!”

This time, when he responds, he makes sure it comes out correctly.

**Jake The Man** : DO IT NOW!!!!

A second later the unmistakable sounds of a fire alarm fill the classroom.

A wide smile crosses Jake’s face and he has to quickly change it to an over-exaggerated, worried frown. “Oh no, the fire alarm! Everyone head towards the exit in a calm fashion and make sure you leave any valuables! Especially your calculators!”

All of a sudden there’s a commotion among his students that reminds Jake that he is, in fact, a teacher, and has to make sure these kids get out okay. Even though it’s a _totally_ false alarm and _wow_ , is he so proud of Charles! It takes longer than it should, but eventually, he stands up and shuffles them all out, eyes occasionally ensuring Bill’s backpack stays on the ground. Victory is so close that he can practically taste it, and it takes everything he has not to start jumping for joy.

“Peralta! You okay?”

_Uh-oh_. Jake’s eyes widen at the appearance of Assistant Principal Jeffords at the door, whose eyes are comically wide. He scrambles for a moment as his hand presses against Carol Mather’s back to push her towards the door. “All good here, just making sure the kids get out safely!”

“Good, good. Terry hates fire!” Before Jake can even really register it, the last of his students makes his way out the door and his other boss is pulling on his arm, following suit.

“Oh, wait, no, that’s okay, I just have to make sure the, uh, lesson plans are safe, don’t want those getting burn—”

“Let’s move, Peralta!”

And _man_ is Terry strong, so much so that all Jake can do is wince and allow himself to be dragged into the hallway. “Okay…”

Of course, because Jake Peralta’s life is just one big joke to the universe, Amy is right there when he gets outside, arms crossed accusingly over her chest. He takes a minute to adjust his button-down, which Terry had somehow crinkled, before walking over to her. There’s no way the pained smile on his face doesn’t come across as sincere. “Oh hey, Santiago! Crazy random fire drill, right?”

“Fire drills are always on Friday, Jake. It’s Thursday.” He hates how he finds the way she’s got the drill schedule memorized endearing. “I cannot believe you pulled the fire alarm to try and win some stupid bet!”

He tries not to falter under the weight of her disapproving stare, he really does. “What are you talking about? I had nothing to do with this!”

Amy doesn’t speak as she nods her head towards Charles, who’s talking across the courtyard with Rosa. He seems to sense that he’s being silently summoned, because he chooses that moment to look over at them, a wince squeezing his features. “Sorry, Jakey! Amy is _very_ intimidating.”

“Dammit, Charles!” Suddenly Jake’s brilliant Plan B has turned into something worse than his Plan A. A hand reaches up to slide down the length of his face as he finds it in himself to admit defeat. “Fine! Yes, I asked Charles to pull the fire alarm, but only so I could steal Bill’s calculator before everyone returned safely! Is that so bad?”

“Yes, Jake, that’s bad!”

“Yeah, I know.” There’s a grimace on his face as he looks from Amy to his feet and then back up again. She looks so stupidly good in her pantsuit (who even wears those to school anymore?) that he almost tells her she’s won. But then he remembers who he is, who _they_ are, and jabs a finger out towards her. “At least I did something! You’re no closer to winning this thing than I am. It’s like you’re not even trying, Santiago.”

“I’m trying!” She insists, arms falling to her side. A flush pinks her cheeks as her nostrils flare and Jake takes a moment to wonder if it’s from embarrassment or from how close they’re now standing. “In fact, I would have had the calculator in my hands _right now_ if you hadn’t pulled this stupid stunt!”

Jake can’t help it; he laughs, genuine amusement curling at his features. “Oh, yeah? How were you going to do that when Bill had my class this period?”

“I—” It’s quite the sight, seeing Amy falter. “I don’t know, but I would have done it! And I’m still winning the bet because obviously you’re an _idiot_!”

Jake launches back into competition mode and narrows his eyes. “In your dreams, Santiago! Which are probably filled with me anyway because you’re totally in love with me!”

Amy scoffs loudly and, for the briefest of moments, looks like she’s going to slap him. (He’s not thinking about how hot that would be, he swears he’s not.) Instead, she flips him her middle finger, hand past her hips in case anyone’s looking, and stomps away towards Charles. And Jake is left standing there, an uncensored smile on his face as he watches her.

That is until Holt stomps out of the building and booms, “Boyle! Peralta! My office, _now_!” Then Jake’s face just pales and he considers running away to Florida and changing his name to something stupid, like Larry.

.

.

.

Friday rolls around and no one is any closer to winning the bet.

Jake got a _heavy_ berating from Holt following the fire drill—who knew schools had security cameras in the hallways?—so he likes to think that’s why his final plan fails so miserably. It involves a petting zoo goat and Charles’ organic grains and anyway, he’d rather not get into it.

Amy’s last-ditch effort is to go with Holt’s plan anyway and convince her students to surrender their calculators at the beginning of class. It doesn’t work, of course, because she teaches _high school_ , not middle school, and these kids aren’t dumb. Failure is never a welcome emotion for Amy Santiago and she feels it in her bones as she makes her way into the teacher’s lounge after her last class.

“So I take it you didn’t get the calculator either.”

Her long face looks up to see Jake leaning against the counter, a mug in his hand. She doesn’t have the energy to fight with him or lie—it’s been a _long_ week—so she slumps next to him with a sigh. “No. I guess I’m just not made for deceiving kids.”

Jake laughs and the sound surprises her, somehow. “I think that’s considered to be a good quality in a teacher, Amy.”

Her skin itches briefly with the sound of him saying her first name. It’s nice, she thinks, the way his mouth forms the word. She smiles gratefully at him and says, “Yeah, well. I know your ideas were a little out there, but at the end of the day, you care about your students too, Jake. Or else you wouldn’t have made sure they all got out safely before you went to steal it.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He ducks his head and smiles at his mug as he says it, though, and it fills Amy with a strange sort of warmth. “I can be pretty selfish sometimes. Like when I chose to deal with my emotions by pulling stupid pranks.” And then his expression takes on his sort of longing, like he’s trying to say what he wants to without actually saying it, and Amy’s breath catches in her throat.

“Jake…” She instinctively moves a little closer to him as she murmurs his name, like she doesn’t even realize what she’s doing, like she’s just naturally pulled towards him, and Jake’s eyes flicker down to her lips.

Remember that whole thing about the universe thinking Jake’s life is one big joke? It must apply to Amy’s, too, or else Gina wouldn’t have chosen that exact moment to burst into the lounge, lamenting as she moves to stand in front of them.

“Floorgasm is dead! I repeat, Floorgasm is dead! This is Defcon Five, people!”

“Gina, you’re not even a _teacher_! Why do you keep coming in here?”

.

.

.

“I know what you guys are doing.”

It’s approximately forty-seven minutes after the not-a-moment moment in the kitchen. Jake lets out a yelp as he turns from his car door, which he’d just been opening, to see Bill Boom standing in front of him. His arm is holding out his calculator, pinched between two fingers like it might carry some sort of disease.

“Oh hey there Bill, didn’t see you standing there!” Jake draws out the _hey_ in an effort to conserve the fact that he’s trying to still his very much beating heart. He’s not good at being snuck up on. “What are you talking about? Who’s ‘you guys?’ What are we ‘doing?’”

It’s the first time Jake ever sees Bill roll his eyes. “You and Ms. Santiago. I know about the bet. To steal my calculator before tomorrow?”

Another dragged out exclamation leaves Jake’s mouth. “ _What?_ What bet? If Amy— _Ms. Santiago_ —has been trying to steal your calculator, then that has nothing to do with me, and maybe we should try and get her some help—”

“I know it was the both of you, Mr. Peralta. I heard you talking about it in the courtyard after the fire drill. The one you caused to try and steal my calculator.”

Jake’s smile falls flat and thin, so that it’s more like a grimace. “Oh.” He sighs, figuring the jig is up, and tries to ignore the twist of guilt in his gut. “Look, Bill, I’m sorry. _We’re_ sorry. We shouldn’t have dragged you into our dumb teacher rivalry.”

He waits for Bill to agree, for him to say that he’s going to march right up to Principal Holt and tell him that two of his teachers have been toying with his mind and trying to steal a piece of his property. Jake is already working on his apology, thinking of how he can spin it to get in less trouble ( _“We’re preparing them for the_ world, _Principal. Bill’s going to get lots of things stolen in his life, better get used to it now!_ ) when the unimaginable happens.

“I’m not going to tell Principal Holt or anything. Look, it’s been a… weird week, but I get it. I’ve been on the playground before, Mr. Peralta. I know what it’s like to pull a girl’s pigtails and knock another kid down to try and get her attention.” He’s looking at Jake pointedly, like he can see right through him, and Jake squirms at the gaze. He wants to protest and tell Bill that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but they both know that’d be a lie. So he just stays silent, eyes flickering down to his shoes. It’s strange, to be talking about this kind of thing with one of his students. It’s strange to think that someone other than Boyle or Rosa knows his deepest secret.

(He supposes, though, that everyone knows. Everyone except for Amy, that is. How’s that for irony, English teacher?)

“Well, still. I’m sorry, Bill. I’ll tell Amy that I’ll chaperone the dance, since the whole thing was my idea anyway, and you can keep your calculator.”

Bill nods. Then, unexpectedly, he hands the calculator to Jake. “If you’re going to do it anyway, you might as well take this. Hide it somewhere where Ms. Peralta can find it on her own. She really wants to win this thing, you know. And all she did was try to pretend like she was going to borrow it and not give it back, but then she did. So, y’know. She might deserve it.”

Jake lets out a little incredulous chuckle as he takes the calculator from Bill. His mind can’t help but picture Amy’s triumphant smile when she finds it, eyes gleaming with pride as she presents it to him. Seeing that smile, Jake knows, would be worth losing. “Thanks, Bill. You’re a pretty smart kid.”

“Tell me something I don't know. Or, at least, be sure to tell my mother during Open House next summer.” He starts to turn away, but twists back at the last moment, eyes squinting to adjust to the contacts that have replaced his round glasses. “Ms. Santiago is really cool, Mr. Peralta. And she likes you too, we can all tell. Don’t mess it up.” And then he’s gone, a cloud of teenage hormones and Axe body spray leaving in his wake.

Jake blinks for a moment as he stands by his car, book bag slung over his shoulder and hands holding the goddamn graphing calculator. His thoughts stew around _she likes you too_ for a little too long before he realizes that he should probably go home. He’s mumbling to himself as he finally slips into his car, gingerly placing Amy’s prize on the seat next to him. “High schoolers smell _so_ weird.”

.

.

.

Amy goes to the dance anyway.

It feels a little silly, getting ready for Homecoming like she’s the one in high school. A part of her hates the way she puts on her nicest dress (a black wrap dress with red flowers that she somehow knows Jake will love) and spends a little extra time applying her eyeliner. But then she thinks back to earlier, when she mysteriously found Bill’s calculator sitting on top of a locker outside her classroom as she was locking up for the weekend. Thinks back to how it’s a locker Jake likes to lean against so he can scare her every time she walks out the door, a maniacal laugh passing his lips every time at the expression on her face.

She just _knows_ he put it there so that she could win the bet, and the thought releases a cageful of butterflies in her stomach. And a bunch of feelings she’d been repressing in the name of rivalry and self-preservation and other stupid, meaningless excuses.

She spends the twenty-minute car ride to the school formulating a plan on how to tell him that she wants to smush her face against his because she’s a planner. It gets to Step Four (thank him for letting her win) before going completely blank. By the time she parks her car and picks up her clutch, Amy realizes that she has _no idea_ what she’s going to say to him. The realization is as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

To the student body’s credit, the gymnasium looks pretty amazing. Pink balloons formed into arches and silver streamers hang from the ceilings. There are flowers on the various tables, both for students and for snacks, and lights that dance across the walls. It doesn’t scream _eighties movie!_ , not without the presence of Simple Minds playing through the speakers, but Amy’s chest swells with pride anyway.

“Amy! You came!”

She doesn’t like the way Charles has a knowing look on his face or the shirt he’s wearing, but she smiles anyway. She’s feeling good tonight. “Yeah, I didn’t want Jake to have to do it alone after all. Speaking of which, do you see him? I wanted to… Say hi.”

“Oh, Amy, you don’t have to lie to me. As Jake’s best friend, I know all about his romantic life.” Charles looks way too proud as he nudges her and extends a hand out in front of them, towards the other side of the gym. Amy just wrinkles her nose. “He’s right over there. Just make sure to work a _Die Hard_ quote in if you can when you tell him that you love him.”

There’s a moment when she thinks she should deny it (or whack his shoulder, at the very least), but Amy just ends up smiling gratefully and squeezing his arm. “Thanks, Charles.”

Vaguely she can hear the words “go get him, tiger!” as she makes her way over to Jake, but her heart is pounding loudly in her ears. He’s laughing at something Rosa is saying and he’s wearing an _actual tie_ and he looks so nice and God, does Amy love him. She’s thankful for the way that she’s able to catch Rosa’s eye and that Rosa takes the hint, patting Jake’s shoulder before walking towards some Art teacher Amy doesn’t remember the name of.

“Hey, Santiago. What are you doing here?” Jake greets her warmly when she finally stands in front of him.

She loves him. Who would have thought?

“You throw quite a party. I didn’t realize they celebrated Christmas in Japan!”

He starts laughing and Amy instantly frowns, thinking about all the different ways she could kill Charles and get away with it. “What? Did you just quote _Die Hard_?”

“I think I did,” she says sheepishly, laughing along with him despite herself. Her hands come up to hide her face in pure embarrassment. “Charles said I should try and work one in when I tell you, which now that I think about it, was really shitty advice.”

Before she can register it, Amy feels Jake’s hands on her wrist, gently tugging them away from his face. He’s not laughing anymore. “Tell me what?”

Well, this is already not going to plan. Amy isn’t sure why she bothers with making those anymore. About three thousand different ways she could save herself pass through her mind as she looks at him, her bottom lip tugged between her teeth. In the end, though, she decides to deflect. While she still can. “I know you left the calculator where I could find it.”

“Oh. Right.” Is it just her, or does Jake look disappointed? His hands drop from her wrists to fall into his pockets and Amy instantly misses the warmth. “Well, Bill convinced me that we were acting like idiots and that you deserved it more. So, yeah, I figured I’d just let you win.”

“Wait, what? _Bill_ told you?” It’s not the only thing he said that Amy’s focused on, but it’s certainly the most pressing. What if Bill tells Principal Holt?

“Don’t worry, he won’t tell Holt.” Amy wonders if she’d spoken out loud for a moment before reveling in the fact that Jake can simply read her unspoken thoughts. He seems to realize it, too, and chooses to focus on the cup of punch in his hands. “Turns out that he’s a pretty smart kid. And an _incredible_ eavesdropper. Anyway, I owe you an apology, Santiago. It was a really stupid thing to bet on.”

It’s unsettling, the way she deflates when he uses her last name again. It feels like they’ve taken ten steps backward somehow. Still, she knows it’s now or never, so she finds a way to say what she came here to say. “It was pretty stupid,” she admits, eyes watching the way a frown etches his features. “But I’d do a thousand more stupid bets, Jake, if it means that I get to hang out with you.”

And, okay, so it’s not exactly a _love_ confession, but the way Jake’s face snaps up, a questioning smile curling his mouth, Amy figures it might as well be. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She’s nodding eagerly and smiling now, true and pure and unabashedly. “I _really_ like hanging out with you. In case that wasn’t clear before.”

“I really like hanging out with you too, Amy.”

For a moment they just stand there, Mr. Peralta and Ms. Santiago, _Amy and Jake_ , smiling at each other. There’s a slow eighties pop song that starts playing in the background, and he holds the hand that isn’t holding his punch out to her. “Can I have this dance?”

There’s a sentimental part of herself that Amy doesn’t recognize that reacts to him, her body filling with jitters and warmth. She slots her hand in his and lets the world slow down around her as she smiles. “Yes, you can.”

He pulls her towards the dance floor, surrounded by their students and coworkers, who all figured this would happen eventually, and figures they have all the time in the world to say what they need to. For now she’ll just rest her hand on his shoulder as his arm grips her waist and sway to the rhythm, giggling over nothing. For now they’ll just talk about how Chris Lyons and Alice Mantell are _definitely_ going to make out under the bleachers later, and how Bill Boom is probably going to get into Harvard someday, and how Amy thinks _Die Hard_ is just a little bit overrated.

Later, when it’s time to go back to school after the long weekend and Amy’s spent the entire mini-break at Jake’s apartment, yelling at him over his expired orange juice and disdain of laundry, Jake listening to her with a kind of affection she’s never known, they’ll talk about what it all means.

But that’ll be later, after they dance under twinkling lights, a song about eternal love playing all around them.


End file.
